


The Repetition of Rain

by jenna_thorn



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Demands of the Qun, Gen, Last Resort of Good Men, spoilers for personal arcs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4242393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/pseuds/jenna_thorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Right, so … does he look distraught to you?”</p><p>They both gazed forward to where Dorian had clearly given up on protecting himself from the rain and was instead standing with his face turned up to it, letting it wash over him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Repetition of Rain

**Now**

Trevelyan leaned into the Iron Bull. “How much do I need to worry about Dorian?"

“You worry about everyone, boss.”

“Yeah, but how much?”

“How would I know?”

Trevelyan gave up the pretense of staring into the distance and glared up at the Bull. “Because I know, and you know I know, and I know that you know that I know,” he frowned, blinked, then shook his head and continued, “that behind your brawn is a brain and you’ve been watching him as much as I have.”

“Just not the same view,” the Bull said, and licked his lips.

“Yeah, see, still not hiding the fact that you are a spy. An over-muscled lecherous spy, but spy. Now, back to my question.”

The Bull took a breath and Trevelyan could see the shift in his priorities. Something about the way his back moved. The Bull straightened when he was talking about the Ben Hassrath stuff. “If he’s been making communication, neither your Nightingale nor I have spotted him. So either he’s being upfront, or he’s better than he could possibly be. His reported research matches my spot checks and … what?”

“That’s not what I .. you’re _watching_ him?”

The Bull narrowed his eye. It made his whole face crinkle. “How did this conversation start, boss?”

Trevelyan sighed. “The last time I dragged his perfumed ass out here, he spent most of the second night at camp sitting out of view, shaking and talking to himself. I was feeling guilty about dragging him back here, since he clearly hates it, but I couldn’t find Solas and Vivienne intimidates the crap out of me.”

“You and me both.”

“Right, so … does he look distraught to you?”

They both gazed forward to where Dorian had clearly given up on protecting himself from the rain and was instead standing with his face turned up to it, letting it wash over him. 

 

**Then**

 

Dorian tried to keep the waves to his left and the cliffs to his back. The constant rain of the Storm Coast was a distraction as he cast again and again, trying to cover Blackwall while Trevelyan danced in and out of barriers as quickly as Dorian could throw them up. Varric was sensibly out of the fracas and Dorian had started out that way, but Blackwall kept throwing bandits about, flinging them at angles to his own battering ram straight lines and the end result was that Dorian, focused thirty feet away on two sneaky types trying to corner Varric, was rushed by a behemoth of a man wielding a greatsword taller than Dorian himself. He managed one elbow-jarring parry with the blade of his staff, too close, far too close, and the bandit paused, not by Dorian’s own hand, but by the edge of Blackwall’s axe, pulling the man up and back, but spilling forth his heart’s blood in a red arc that sprayed from neck to arm in front of him, catching Dorian from waist to hair in gore. 

He drew a breath through his nose, his lips pressed tight against the liquid that dripped from his hair, from his moustache, from his very skin, and shot lightning over the corpse, past Blackwall’s left ear, to light up the remaining assassin in front of Varric. A bit much, he thought, as the corpse twitched in a macabre dance, accompanied by the percussion of sparks popping. He spat out the dead man’s blood, wiped his face with the hem of his robes, then spat again.

“You okay, Sparkler?”

“No,” Dorian called back, then raised his hand to wave them off, adding, “but I am not injured,” when he saw Trevelyan change direction toward him. Dorian shook his hand as he lowered it, the fabric of his clothing clinging to him, blood running freely from his fingertips. _Was_ any of it his? He couldn’t tell, mesmerized by rivulets of red. He stepped away from the corpse as Trevelyan began to pat it down with practiced efficiency. “Looting the bodies?” he asked, trying to keep any tremor from his voice.

“Gotta pay for Cullen’s recruits,” Trevelyan cheerfully answered and Dorian shook his head. The action dislodged something, rain or mud or … or … other and he bowed and mumbled an excuse, stepping backwards off the rocks, away from the glassy-eyed body before him and Trevelyan’s suddenly piercing gaze, then to the left to the endless crashing waves of the Waking Sea. The jut of the cliffs behind him afforded no privacy, but he could scarcely keep from clawing at his own skin and he could not, would not, wait to get the blood of another man off of him. 

He waded into the ocean, pushed about by the waves, the drop from rocky beach to cold ocean water quick and steep. He realized he should have left his staff ashore but instead raised it in one hand as he fell to his knees, letting the waves crest over him, gasping for breath in the lee as every wave’s withdrawal pulled him toward the deep, the tide tugging at his robes. The sea wanted him, to drag him in, to rest in a watery grave. No pooling blood at the bottom of the sea, he thought, then laughed at himself. He bent his neck in a parody of prayer, let the next wave catch him with his mouth open, the briney water filled with foam and fish and no blood, no blood. He spat out the sea water and switched hands, dipping his still gore-bedecked arm into the ocean to let it soak while the sleeve of his right hand dripped brine into his eyes. He ducked his head again and pushed back his hair with his free hand, then glanced at his palm. No red, and that would have to do.  
He rose and walked past the scene of their carnage, up and inland, following Blackwall’s growling voice to a flattish space, redolent with elfroot and ram shit. Varric snapped out a tent roll and Blackwall stared inland. Trevelyan dropped an armful of deadfall and said, “Oh good, now I don’t have to do it right.” Dorian flicked his fingers, centering the smallest of fireballs into the center of the messy pile of damp wood. 

“You are going to forget how to build a proper campfire,” Blackwall groused. “And you, those boots are spoilt.”

“Serves them right, ghastly things that they are.” Dorian shot back. He leaned over the fire, smoke in his eyes and the folds of his clothing clinging to his legs until they peeled away heavily. Like skinning an animal, he thought, and his stomach lurched. He dug in his pack and flinched when a body passed behind him.  
Varric stood several paces away, too far to hand him anything, and gestured with a stick to his feet. “Take ‘em off and here.” Varric jammed the stick into the sandy loam near the fire. “We’ll prop ‘em up to dry.” Dorian dropped to sit on the ground and pulled his boots off, tossing them to Varric, who knelt just out of arm’s reach. Varric pushed some kind of metal contraption into the toe of each boot and flipped them to dangle before the fire. “Ruined more than a few pair of boots, stomping around the Wounded Coast back home. Why once, Hawke and I …” 

Dorian ignored the rest of the story and pulled his sodden robes up and over his head in a tangle of wet cloth to drop them into a useless, wasteful pile in the dirt, then wrapped himself in his bedroll and walked, barefoot and half naked, to the edge of the fire away from Varric’s story, from Blackwall’s cooking, from Trevelyan’s concern. 

He wanted to rub at his skin, at his wrists, at everywhere the blood had touched. He resisted and let the grumble of the surf drown out the echoes of his father’s voice.

 

**Now**

 

“Giving up on being pretty?” Trevelyan asked.

“Washed clean of every trace of kohl, bare as a babe, I am and will always be the prettiest of the lot of you.” Dorian pushed his limp hair up, then let it fall.

“Except ma’am,” Bull corrected.

“Who is lounging at Skyhold, with dry feet, drier wine, and wet behind the ears recruits, and thus isn’t included.”

Trevelyan snorted. “Another one fell off the stairs yesterday, wrenched an ankle. A few more months and Cullen’ll start laughing at them like we do.”

“Which is why I would rather be here, risking my golden complexion under dreary skies and my delicate limbs by exposing them to your twisted rocks, than there, stepping around puppies slobbering to become war dogs.” 

“You and your dog fetish.”

“I am in Fereldan.” Dorian shrugged. “Were we in Orlais, my metaphors would revolve around masks. A tourist should know the quaint customs of the country he visits.” 

“So if we hop up into Tevinter, do I get to make snake jokes?” Trevelyan smirked.

“You don’t want to leave those to Bull?” Dorian asked, his eyes wide with innocence despite the constant rain falling into them.

Trevelyan gaped. “Stop encouraging him.”

Bull laughed, loud and long. He threw one heavy arm around Dorian’s shoulders and ruffled his hair with the other hand. “Yeah, you’re all right.”

“Whatever gave you any idea I wasn’t?” Dorian responded breezily, then sank a sharp elbow hard enough into the Bull’s ribs that he coughed and let go. Cassandra shot them all a look of disgust, then returned her attention to the papers and nattering of the onsite requisition officer. 

Trevelyan waited until Dorian was out of earshot, then waited a bit more. “You think he’s okay?”

Bull went up on his toes, then came down hard on his heels to resettle his harness. “Will he cover your back? Yes. Will he slide a dagger in your ribs? Not today. Will he seduce you and lure you to .. yeah, I can’t even say it with a straight face.”

Trevelyan poked him in the stomach. “You’ve been listening to gossipy hens.” 

“Nah, the hens are in the garden. I’ve been listening to bored soldiers and nervous recruits. There’s a reason I like that table.”

“Yeah, spies and secrets.”

Bull bent at the waist to catch his eye, and said slowly and clearly, “I’ve never been anything but honest with you, boss.”

Tevelyan grimaced. “Okay, yeah, fair point. But sometimes I think you are the only one.”

Bull straightened again and gazed to the sea beyond them. “Nah, I’ve just got enough stories that I don’t have to tell them all. Like everyone does. ‘Cept Varric. Can’t get him to shut up.”

Trevelyan laughed, a short sharp bark that surprised himself. Dorian too, apparently, since he straightened from a crouch, his hands filled with embrium leaves, to look back up the hill at them. Trevelyan waved and Dorian shook the leaves at him in acknowledgment. 

“You know my story. Everyone knows mine.”

“Nah,” Bull countered. “What Varric and Josephine are telling people, that’s the Inquisition’s story. The Herald’s or the Inquisitor or whatever. Your story is you.”

Trevelyan shook his head. “I’m spending too much time with Leliana. That actually made sense.”

“Good, be a diplomat. We’ve got an appointment.”

Trevelyan allowed himself to be pulled. “Josie’s the diplomat, not the spy.”

“You say that like there’s a difference. Let’s go meet the Qunari and my boys.”

 

**Later**

 

“Do you even know what Tal-Vashoth means?”

“Do you want a literal translation or a political treatise on –“ Dorian bit back his words as Bull dropped to his knees and brought his hands to the floor of the battlement, hard enough to make the stone puff up dust. He raised them again, grit and the first welling of blood, in an echo of prayer.

Dorian stepped forward. “Exile.” 

“Exile’s nothing but long term tourism; I’m dust. I’ve left the Qun by my own hand.” The shimmering heat of the Bull’s anger dissipated. He sank back on his heels and let his palms drop to his thighs.

“The Qun has left you.”

Bull shrugged. “How does a body stand without a skeleton?”

“Rather straighter, I’ve found.” Dorian toed the unrestored edge, then stepped back to firmer ground. “Speaking solely for myself.”

“We aren’t the same, Dorian.”

“Of course not. You turned your back on your country to save a handful of alcoholic pitfighters, while I was rather more self-absorbed and was the only alcoholic –“

“Dorian…” the Bull growled.

“Yes, well.” He bent to dust the ground, making a joke of his own fastidious nature before sitting next to the Bull. “You recognized an unacceptable action, you countered it, and now… now you live the rest of your life with Krem’s sass and Grim’s charming personality and Dalish’s …” Dorian trailed off.

“What about Dalish?” Bull prompted.

“I’ve no idea. I actually have become quite fond of her, I suspect to both our surprise. And Skinner alarms me, so I’ll not whisper a word about her or her blades and Stitches owes me money and so on for all of them. Except for Krem. Sass, I say.”

“I froze.”

“Pardon?” Dorian blinked at the non-sequitor.

“I froze. I let the Boss make the decision.”

“And are you angry with him for making the wrong choice?”

“No, no, he was right, I think.”

“Because he was right and is right, and he knew that then and I know it now.”

“I don’t know that. I don’t know what to do. I’m struggling against the tide, Dorian.”

“This is that ‘socks and busy rats’ bit, isn’t it?”

“Now you aren’t even trying,” Bull said, but the very tips of his lips turned up.

“I am not Qunari and have no idea of what _shok ebasit hissra_ might possibly mean. It certainly hasn’t come up in any of my studies as a fundamental precept of the Qun. But if you feel you are fighting the sea, then accept help. No, not ask for it, _accept _it. Maxwell’s standing there already, and even if he weren’t, you trust Krem to throw you a line, yes?”__

__“Not his job.”_ _

__“You don’t need his aid. Because you have the Qun.”_ _

__“Yeah.” Bull rubbed at the space between his horns. “Except I don’t.”_ _

__“Well, you have people instead, so welcome to the world the rest of us live in.”_ _

__“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” The Bull looked up at Dorian for the first time since he’d climbed the steps behind him._ _

__“Not me, mind. I’m a terrible moral example. I’ll replace duty with wine and fortitude with indolence.”_ _

__“And you’d make me wear a shirt.”_ _

__“Well, perhaps not all of one.”_ _

__

__**Now** _ _

__

__Dorian stood in a space between trees, letting the rain wash over him. Trevelyan and the Bull were just far enough away that he could ignore them both, Cassandra was haranguing the local scout squad, the roar of the surf was a muted grumbling behind him and before him, and the mountains rose into the grey mist of the clouds that dripped unceasing water over the whole sodden mess. Including him._ _

__The Waking Sea was cold, and the lands to the south colder still, but the rain pattering on his skin, his hair, his clothing and staff felt if not warm, then welcoming. He felt it wash the dust of the miles between Minrathous and Redcliffe off him, the scent of wet stone and seawater replacing the incense of Haven’s Chantry, so different from that of home. To say he felt washed clean would be impossibly trite, even in his own head, and he turned to the camp, trudging back up the rise, wary of wet rocks under equally wet soles of his boots and his hands full of the sharp edged leaves of embrium._ _


End file.
